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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30057468">Gold Rush</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emi_Waka/pseuds/Emi_Waka'>Emi_Waka</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Duscur (Fire Emblem), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Nostalgia, POV first person direct address, Road Trips, Travel, Worldbuilding, pop culture references</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:49:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,185</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30057468</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emi_Waka/pseuds/Emi_Waka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>There was subtext there; subtext that was finally being addressed, although subtle, although faint. It was the subtext that we pretended didn’t exist, the tension between us that we always shrugged off. </p>
  <p>“We’re just friends,” we’d tell people, even though I know we were both thinking, “Friends who want to be more than that, but don’t know how to get there.”</p>
</blockquote>Ingrid and Sylvain go to Duscur.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sylvgrid Evermore Project</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Gold Rush</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I COULDN'T HAVE DONE THIS WITHOUT MY BESTIE LIV</p><p>THANK YOU</p><p>This was written for the Sylvgrid Evermore Project, where we write fics based on the tracklist.</p><p>(Also! If anyone spots any typos, please let me know!)</p><p>UPDATE 18/3/2021: </p><p>If you read this when it first came out, I just want to let you know I’ve made some minor edits☺️</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everybody wants you.</p><p>This is an indisputable fact. The naked truth. A conclusion that I had reached after babysitting you — with great reluctance, might I add — over the course of a strenuous thirty odd years, which has aged me by literal decades. This is not hyperbole, and neither is the next confession one made out of vindictiveness, pettiness or resentment. But I have this feeling, a most <em>prophetic </em>feeling, that had you not been in my life, my first grey hair would have sprouted when I was fifty-three and not when I was fifteen.</p><p>Just saying.</p><p>But this isn’t about my grey hairs, your role in propagating said early tragedies, nor is it about the fact that even if your whole head of hair went stark white, you’d just end up a sly silver fox, à la George Clooney.</p><p>(Screw you and your Gautier genetics. Seriously.)</p><p>Except that it is about that; about the fact that even if you were bald, fat, hairy, thin, young, well, <em>whatever</em> — you’d <em>still</em> be hot. Because here’s the thing: you have the IT factor, the cool of Bond (<em>James </em>Bond), the blessing of Aphrodite, the curse of Helena, the magnetism of a goddamn black hole and the allure of a gold rush.</p><p>TL<strong>;</strong>DR</p><p>You’re ridiculously attractive, I want to suck your face off, be yours, have you be mine and mine only, but so does everyone else, and I <em>hate</em> that.</p><p>I hate it so much. I hate it more than my student debt, more than when Felix drinks my clearly labelled post-workout smoothie and more than your love.</p><p>Your love. I hate it, sometimes. Because it confuses me, intoxicates me, overwhelms me, and I don’t understand how one person could have so much power over another.</p><p>This is fear. Irrationality encapsulated. Philophobia, in sum.</p><p>I love you.</p><p>Everybody wonders what that’s like. To love you, to be loved by you. A truly ridiculous number of busybodies have asked me that, you know, and I’m proud to say that I’ve never rewarded their intrusion with an answer.</p><p>But then <em>you</em> asked me. After eight years of loving you, of being loved by you, you posed the question:</p><p>“Hey, Ingrid. What does my love mean to you?”</p><p>This is my answer to that question. What our love is, what it means to me.</p><p>For that, we have to go back.</p><p>Back to Duscur.</p><hr/><p>Here we are.</p><p>Back to Continental Year 2015, back to our college years, back to that day when we were in my car, spooning melted off-brand Neapolitan out of a dripping tub and into cotton-dry mouths, in the deathgrip of a global warming Faerghus summer.</p><p>Back to when we were just ‘friends.’</p><p>Friends, I put in quotation, because we weren’t truly just friends, were we? Because I don’t think friends without quotations ever acted the way we did. We, the so-called ‘friends’, who would drunkenly challenge each other to kissability contests, monogamously spoon while binge-watching the best seasons of <em>the Office</em> (three, four and five, respectively) and stare, gulp, at slivers of revealed skin, when shirts hitched just a little too high, too low.</p><p>Neither did friends have conversations such as these:</p><p>“Everyone thinks you’re hot,” I mumbled, spoon in mouth. The ice cream tub sat on my lap, melting my seagreen sundress; the one you bought me, the one I secretly adored. “To clarify, I’m speaking in literal terms. Literally. <em>Everybody.”</em></p><p>“Naaaaaah.”</p><p>I looked over to the evidence of my claim: you.</p><p>Because there you were in the passenger’s seat; sweat-slick skin flushed pig-pink, hair tousled by wind and gelled by sea water, eyes like sinking ships, and looking as effortlessly gorgeous as Marlon Brando in <em>A Streetcar Named Desire.</em></p><p>I scoffed.</p><p>“Nah, my ass. Who was it that claimed that if they were alive during the Judgement of Paris, they would win over Athena, Aphrodite and that other chick, no question? You. It was you, you narcissistic prick.”</p><p>“Noooo. I said I’d win over Athena and That Other Chick, but not Aphrodite. Aphrodite’s the OG. Could never beat her at her own game.”</p><p>“Who <em>was</em> that other chick again?”</p><p>“Um.” You blinked. “Hera?”</p><p>“Let's hope it wasn’t Hera. Hera’s a nightmare.”</p><p>Grinning, you reached over and pilfered my spoon. “Like you.”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“Speaking of which, not everyone would like to fuck me. Shocking, I know, I almost can’t believe it myself!”</p><p>“I said that everyone thinks you’re <em>hot, </em>not that everyone wants a piece of your nasty ass.”</p><p>“The point <em>being</em>, my dear friend, that, <em>nah</em>. Not everyone thinks that I’m attractive.”</p><p>“Yah,” I mimicked. “They do.”</p><p>“Nah.” Dipping the spoon into the tub, you scooped up the pulpy chocolate. “They don’t.”</p><p><em>“Yah.”</em> I repeated, before pointing to my open mouth, eyes on your spoon. As ever, you gave in, giving me the bite. I swallowed, then stole the spoon back with my teeth. I ate several more mouthfuls of chocolate ice cream. When I was done, I hummed happily. “Mmm. Yum!”</p><p>You stared. I cocked a brow.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Oh, you know, the sight of you shovelling down chocolate ice cream down your throat just reminded me of that one scene in 2 Girls 1 Cup.”</p><p>“I hate you,” I whispered. “I hate you so much. So, so, <em>so</em> much, why would you even bring that up, that’s so <em>fucking</em> disgusting—”</p><p>To shut me up, you shoved a spoonful of vanilla into my mouth, and I remember wishing you had picked strawberry instead. White was a color that had potential for innuendo; one that I thought you’d take full advantage of. So, I braced myself for yet another disgusting comparison. But instead, you merely shushed me, whispering, “Shhh, baby girl, <em>shhhh.”</em></p><p>That wasn’t what I expected, but it was still gross. So, I mock-gagged. “Ew.”</p><p>“Anyway, can we move on? I’m feeling kinda sleazy and disgusted with myself right now.”</p><p>“And who’s fault is that?”</p><p>“We are now moving onto: it is <em>really</em> fucking hot today. Like, holy shit, I am actually melting.” Reaching out to the glovebox, you grabbed at my dollar store aviator and wore it like Ray-Bans. “Let’s not marry in the summer, dear.”</p><p>“When, then?”</p><p>“I dunno. Fall?”</p><p>“Works for me.”</p><p>You grinned, somewhat boyishly, somewhat coyly.</p><p>“Good girl.”</p><p>Ignoring how that made my toes stretch and skin tingle, I started up the car; a maroon ‘97 Nissan Pathfinder, who we named ‘Titania.’ The reasoning, I don’t remember. After I bought her, there were too many celebratory shots of Smirnoff for either of us to have a clear recollection. My girl stuttered and sputtered; engine roaring, exhaust pipe fuming. But after a few creative insults from me and a few whispered sweet nothings from you, she finally obeyed.</p><p>“Finally,” I breathed out, wiping the sweat on my upper lip. Eyes on the road, I wiped it onto your shirt-sleeve. “Here, a treat, you degenerate.”</p><p>“Oh, thanks,” you replied, nonchalant. Then, dangerously, you took off your shirt. Dangerous, I say, because I needed to keep my eyes on the road, and not on the light carves of your abs or the slight pudge below. Or your nipples. Those too. “God, <em>Ingrid</em>, stop staring at my nips. I feel exposed.”</p><p>“Wha—” I nearly veered off the road; a Ferrari booed me. “I wasn’t?” (I was.) “God, Sylvain, don’t say that, and why did you even <em>strip?”</em></p><p>“Like I said, it’s really fucking hot—” Sighing, you tossed the shirt to the back seat. “Two. Your smexy sweat is on my shirt, so I’m going to hide it away in a very precious place and bring it back out only when it <em>truly</em> matters.”</p><p>“I’m getting the impression that you <em>want</em> to be despised.” At the sight of a yellow light, I slowed down, flip-flops on brakes. Then, I glared. “And buddy? It’s working.”</p><p>“Can we go get Mickey Ds?”</p><p>I sighed. “And <em>why?”</em></p><p>Ever so strategically, you pouted. “I want ice cream.”</p><p><em>“Oh my god.” </em>I groaned, hands flexing. “Look at your goddamn lap. There is a tub of Neapolitan <em>right</em> there.”</p><p>“Yeah, but it’s all melted and gross. Like, my boardshorts, right?” —I glanced over— “It’s soaked right through. My thighs? Real sticky. Touch it. <em>Touch iiiit.”</em></p><p>“Sir, I am driving.”</p><p>“No, you’re not. We’re at a—well, it just turned green now, but you can still touch it, right? Just for a sec. C’mon.”</p><p>“Oh. My. <em>God.</em> Why would I <em>want </em>to? You’re just going to make a stupid joke about human fluids, so, no, sir. I’m just going to keep driving, thanks.”</p><p>“Fair enough.” A moment of silence passed before you spoke up. “But for real, I’m super dehydrated. I need a cold can of coca cola.”</p><p>“There’s bottled water in the glovebox. Drink that.”</p><p>“No, it’s all warm now and—” You gasped. “Wait, wait, why didn’t you turn<em> left?</em> You missed it! You missed Ronald!”</p><p>“Because we’re not going to McDonalds—”</p><p>
  <em> “Nooooooo!”</em>
</p><p>“—shut up. We’re going to Burger King.”</p><p>As I looked over my shoulder to check a blindspot, I caught a glimpse of your blank confusion.</p><p>“Burger King?” you mumbled. “Why BK?”</p><p>“The ice cream is nicer there. Fries, too.”</p><p>“But the nuggets taste bad.”</p><p>“Well, we’re not going for the nuggets, are we? We’re going for ice cream. And fries.”</p><p>“Dude, fries dipped in ice cream? The best food combo ever. Must say, even better than <em>the</em> classic, PB&amp;J.”</p><p>“Hard agree.”</p><p>“See?” I heard your soft laughter, the light thud of your head against the car seat, and the spread of your boyish grin. “We’re just so meant to be.”</p><p>Rihanna’s ‘FourFiveSeconds’ strumming on the radio, we pulled up to the Burger King takeaway. With the voucher Dimitri gave me, I spoiled myself to a Double Whopper, large fries and ice cream cone. In addition to your own ice cream, you ordered a Kid’s Pack, despite the shitty nuggets. Because, rather predictably, you wanted a toy.</p><p>“Does Burger King even <em>do</em> toy promotions?” I asked, pulling the car into parking as directed. It was a Saturday dusk; even Burger King was busy. “Because I seriously can’t remember if they ever did. I always had McDonalds growing up.”</p><p>You shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”</p><p>As the sun climbed down to hide behind the sea veil, we waited in silence, with only short bursts of banter and the radio’s selection of the ‘Top Summer Hits of 2015’ to interrupt us. Arm dangling out of the window, I closed my eyes and listened to the low drum of music, the high-pitched squeals of soccer kids, and the slow hum of your breathing.</p><p>You were the one to break our consensual quiet, their comforting noise, first.</p><p>“So, why’d you bring that up?”</p><p>“Mm?” I opened my eyes, glancing your way. Laying on the angled car seat, you returned my gaze, the shades hanging crookedly on your Grecian nose-bridge. I reached out to adjust it — but you grabbed my wrist, entangled our fingers and brought our palms to cusp your warm cheek. Instead of kissing you like I wanted to, I asked, “What do you mean by ‘that?’”</p><p>“That everyone thinks that I’m hot.”</p><p>“I don’t know. It just came up.”</p><p>“Did someone say something?”</p><p>“Obviously. Because when do people <em>not</em> talk about you?”</p><p>I laughed. You didn’t. I stopped.</p><p>“I guess,” you mumbled. “Kinda wish they didn’t, though.”</p><p>“I thought you liked the attention,” I replied, then bit my tongue. “Sorry, that was rude of me.”</p><p>“It’s fine. I mean, I did. Before. When I was sort of addicted to it. That’s why I accepted all those modeling gigs, cause I felt like hot shit. But now?” You hooked the sunglasses up to your hairline, cinnabar tufts poking through the curves of the shades. Then, your eyes, no longer hidden by plastic, met mine. “I only care about having <em>your</em> eyes on me.”</p><p>My hand slid off your cheek.</p><p>“Oh,” I whispered. <em>“Oh.”</em></p><p>“Yep.” You inched back to the seat, shuffling as you tried to get comfortable. Shades sliding back down onto the hook of your nose, you muttered, “Nap time.”</p><p>There was subtext there; subtext that was finally being addressed, although subtle, although faint. It was the subtext that we pretended didn’t exist, the tension between us that we always shrugged off. <em>“We’re just friends,” </em>we’d tell people, even though I know we were both thinking, <em>“Friends who want to be more than that, but don’t know how to get there.”</em></p><p>I didn’t know what to do or what to think or what to say to all that. I was scared. Scared of change. Scared of ‘us’ changing. Scared, because I thought that you were scared too. But you weren’t anymore — because that moment, I realize, was when you decided to choose courage.</p><p>“Ma’am.”</p><p>I looked out the window. There was a Burger King employee, dressed in typical uniform, with a takeaway bag in one hand, and ice cream in the other.</p><p>“Our apologies for the wait. Here is your Double Whopper, Kid’s Pack, two ice cream cones and one large fries. The coca cola is in the bag.”</p><p>“Thanks so much, have a good day.”</p><p>The employee nodded. “Welcome, ma’am,” she said, passing over the bag. But then her eyes honed in on your sleeping form, and my guard went up. I worried she recognized you from some TV show cameo or an H&amp;M advert. “Is the passenger well?”</p><p>“Huh?” I blinked. “Oh, yeah, he’s fine. Just taking a nap.”</p><p>Inexplicably, she said, “He’s not asleep.”</p><p>“Oh? Um—” I looked back, but your eyes were still closed. “No? He’s asleep. Anyway, thanks for the order. Bye.”</p><p>The BK employee didn’t take the hint. She remained, staring at you with unrivalled intensity. Anger rushed through me; it was impatience muddled with confusion and jealousy. She was your type, after all. Curves where it counted, gossamer locks and bright, chatoyant eyes.</p><p>“Excuse me—” I glanced at her nametag: <em>Byleth.</em> “But could you please stop staring? It’s really rude.”</p><p>“Your friend’s life is in danger.”</p><p>“I—what?”</p><p>“He’s passed out from heat exhaustion.”</p><p>I blanched. “Heat exhaustion?”</p><p>“Yes. We’ve had a few cases today. Unsurprising, considering that it is the hottest day in Fhirdiad’s history, since Imperial Year 109—”</p><p>“Look, he’s just sleeping,” I retorted, before lightly tapping your cheeks. “Sylvain? Wake up.”</p><p>“As I said, he’s passed out.”</p><p>“Sorry, no, he’s just being difficult—” I laughed, strained. Then, I whispered, “Sylvain, if you keep this up,<em> I will bitch-slap you awake.”</em></p><p>“Ma’am.”</p><p>“Why isn’t he waking up?” I muttered, panicked, and thought, <em>And why do I get this feeling that something is horribly wrong?</em></p><p>“Ma’am, that would be because he’s passed out from heat exhaustion,” said Byleth, “and I advise you to heed my words. I was a heart surgeon.”</p><p>“What—” I gawked, bewildered. “If you’re truly so highly qualified, then why are you working at a Burger King?”</p><p>“Because of the mafia.” Byleth dead-panned. But before I could ask for clarification, she continued, “Left untreated, heat exhaustion can progress to heat stroke, which may even lead to death. I advise you to get him to the shade, or even to a hospital, before there’s any potential for brain damage—”</p><p>
  <em>“Brain damage!?”</em>
</p><p>“Indeed.” She nodded. “Brain—”</p><p>I booked it to the emergency room quicker than either of you could say<em> “Sike!”</em></p><hr/><p>The next morning, Titania and I went to pick you up from St. Cethleann’s Private Hospital. I spent the ride over in groggy, guilty silence because without your magic, Titania was lifeless. Her radio wasn’t a karaoke machine, her wheels weren’t rollerblades, and her unrolled windows weren’t electric fans; she was just a car. A bruised, metallic hull. Nothing special.</p><p>All this, just because of your overnight absence.</p><p>When I pulled up to the hospital, I attempted a reverse park, failed miserably, tried again, then got honked at by an ambulance, cried my eyeliner off, before I finally parallel parked next to a supportive mother figure who gave a standing ovation at my eventual success. I was as appreciative as I was mortified.</p><p>Then, after ten minutes of checking my phone every ten seconds, you finally appeared and crawled into the backseat. As you slid on your seatbelt, our eyes met via the rear-view mirror.</p><p>At the sight of me, you said: “Did—did <em>you </em>have a stroke?”</p><p>I glared over a runny nose. “No.”</p><p>“Okay, great. But still, you look like a hot fucking mess. You good?”</p><p>I would’ve been annoyed by your curtness, were it not for the fact that, yes: I <em>did</em> look like a hot fucking mess.</p><p>Because there I was, hunchbacked in the front seat, with heavy eye-bags accentuated by tear-smudged kohl eyeliner; inside-out pajama pants mismatched with a wrinkly Nirvana tee and pastel-pink cardigan. Unwisely, I was also barefoot.</p><p>“Please don’t be a dick,” I muttered, as I switched the car gear out of ‘park’ and into ‘drive.’ “And—”</p><p>Sighing, you rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know it was my fault. I should’ve told you I was feeling—”</p><p>“And please just tell me whether you’re okay or not,” I said as I merged back into the main road, before whispering, <em>“Please.”</em></p><p>Your reply wasn’t instant. It was considered, because you took time, stewing in the suppressive mood of my words, re-interpreting them into its actual meaning:</p><p>
  <em>Please be okay. Please just be okay.</em>
</p><p>“Ingrid.” I loved it when you said my name like that; coma-soft yet guttural in the throat. “I am. Don’t worry, I am.”</p><p>“Good.” I sniffled, before pausing at a red light. I reached out for a tissue and blew my nose. “Good.”</p><p>In silence, I drove through the awakening cityscape, with early morning commuters crowding Titania’s sides; a mix of Porsches, Fords and Hondas. Then, at a particularly long red light wait, you broke our stretched-out silence.</p><p>“Can we go get pancakes?”</p><p>The lights finally flashed green as I smiled. “You can, but <em>I</em> can’t. I unfortunately have work today.”</p><p>Like a child, your body slumped against the seat. “Do you <em>have </em>to go to work, Mom?”</p><p>I sighed. “I have bills to pay.”</p><p>You stayed quiet for a moment, before you muttered, “Bills suck.”</p><p>“Bills do suck.”</p><p>“As do Mondays. Mondays really suck.”</p><p>“Oh, one-hundred percent. Mondays are horrid.”</p><p>“As is our capitalistic work culture which confines people in soulless, leech-like, nine-to-five jobs and actively encourages the dehumanisation of the employee and—” You paused, before sighing in dramatic resignation. “Well, I could just go on and on, really.”</p><p>I laughed. “Oh, I <em>know</em> you can.”</p><p>“So, if we can’t have pancakes or life without bills or a healthy working culture, can we at least have the radio on?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>I jabbed on the radio, you rolled down your window, and Titania came back to life as Taylor Swift’s ‘Love Story’ serenaded us. Predictably, you joined in, matching Taylor’s squeaky soprano with your untrained tenor; voice cracking at high notes and overcompensating the low.</p><p>“I’ve always wondered,” you spoke, as the song died away to a Katy Perry tune. “In this equation, are <em>you </em>the Juliet and <em>I’m</em> the Romeo?”</p><p>“There was an equation?”</p><p>“Yes. And I’m conflicted,” you mumbled, “because honestly? I relate to Juliet way more than I do Romeo, but I’m so obviously a Romeo.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll be the Romeo.”</p><p>You grinned. <em>“My </em>Romeo?”</p><p>I grinned back. <em>“Your</em> Romeo.”</p><p>“Man.” You swooned. “You’re so wonderful.”</p><p>Early summer strums accompanying us, I drove through the suburbs of Fhirdiad, passing by our childhood; the parks that we played in, the restaurant where we celebrated birthdays, the homes we lived in.</p><p>As we passed by a familiar Mansard-roof mansion, you asked, “Think Felix is home?”</p><p>“Yeah, but he’s definitely asleep.”</p><p>“Wanna go wake him up? Cause he’s a dick? With, like, a bucket of ice water and boomboxing the Backstreet Boys right next to—”</p><p>
  <em>“No.”</em>
</p><p>You stuck your tongue out. “Boo, you bore.”</p><p>I stuck out mine back. “Boo, you whore.”</p><p>At last, we arrived at your family manor — a three-story structure of hard ridges, grey brick and modern sensibilities. If I recall correctly, you were begrudgingly living with your parents because of two reasons:</p><p>1. Your lease expired. 2. You wanted to save money.</p><p>The latter shocked me. Because for all our years of acquaintance, there was never any need for you to do so.</p><p>You were <em>that </em>kid. The one who was a phone call away from accessing Daddy’s platinum credit card. The one whose family had a private jet for tri-annual holiday getaways. The one who never had to worry about food, shelter, or whether that phone call was from the bill collector or just a family friend.</p><p>You weren’t like me. The one, who as a toddler, learned how to walk and talk at a homeless shelter. The one, who as a child, relied on food stamps and school meals for survival. The one, who as a teen, wore thrifted clothes and worn-down hand-me-downs to high school dances.</p><p>Our worlds were opposite realities of society. Yet, we were best friends — best friends who were completely, utterly and hopelessly entranced by the other.</p><p>When you exited my car, you didn't go to your front door. Instead, you lingered by Titania, leaning on her fringed roof like I knew you would. Ever since childhood, you always hated goodbyes.</p><p>“Aren’t you going back in?” I asked.</p><p>“Eh.” You shrugged off my question. “So, what time do you have work?”</p><p>“In two hours.”</p><p>“Wanna get ready here, then?” you said. “Use my shower? Have the maid make us a quick breakfast?”</p><p>I glared. “Doesn’t she have a name?”</p><p>You went blue at your privilege. “Ah, yeah, right. Sorry.”</p><p>“So? What’s her name?”</p><p>Then, red. “Uh.”</p><p>“Oh my god.” I shook my head. “You don’t even know her name.”</p><p>“No, no, I do! I just—”</p><p>“Please just learn her name, it would mean the world to her, and I’m not exaggerating—”</p><p>“I <em>know</em> her name!” you yelled, exasperated. “It’s just that it's Duscun and I don’t know how to <em>pronounce </em>it.”</p><p>At that, I paused — as I often did whenever Duscur was brought up, however innocuous the context.</p><p>“Oh.” My heart thudded. Thudded. <em>Thudded.</em> “She’s from Duscur?”</p><p>“Yeah. She just arrived a few weeks ago. Dedue” — that was another word, a name, a person, that I so often paused at — “introduced her to me. Said she needed a job and shelter. Our last maid just retired, so I asked my parents if they were interested in hiring.”</p><p>“That was good of you.”</p><p>You shrugged. “Not really. It’s more Dedue than anything. He does that kinda thing a lot.”</p><p>I said the truth, “I’m hardly surprised. He’s a good person.”</p><p>Your smile brimmed with glee and pride. “Right? He really is.”</p><p>Ever so slightly, I curled into myself in shame — because the fact that you were proud of me over such a simple nicety was an embarrassing reminder of who I once was:</p><p>A bigot.</p><p>“So” —I cleared my throat— “I’m sure if you ask him, he’ll tell you how to pronounce her name.”</p><p>“Oh my god, Ingrid, this is <em>so </em>embarrassing but—” you groaned, clearly mortified, agonized. “I’ve already asked both of them like a gazillion times. Yet, I still can’t pronounce it. <em>Kill me.”</em></p><p>“Oh, boo hoo.”</p><p>“No, seriously, this is my biggest stressor right now. I don’t want her to think that I <em>don’t </em>know her name! Cause I do! I just can’t fucking say it properly.”</p><p>“Does she have a nickname you could call her?”</p><p>Your lips twisted into a frown. “Maybe?”</p><p>“Ask, then.” I switched gears. Time was ticking; I needed to get home, take a shower, eat breakfast and then head off for a shitty eight-hour shift as a train station janitor. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go. Bye.”</p><p>“Huh? No, wait!”</p><p>“I have <em>work, </em>Sylvain. Talk to you later,” I said. Then, I batted your hand out of my window and closed it. I waved you farewell and mouthed, <em>“Take care.”</em></p><p>But then as I drove down the street, I caught your figure in my wing mirror, running after me. I scoffed, rolling down my window, and yelled, “Oh my god, are you <em>chasing</em> me?”</p><p>“Ingrid!” you yelled back, breathy and raspy. “I actually brought that up for a reason!”</p><p>“Brought up <em>what?” </em>I shouted.</p><p>“The maid, Serr—Serrinthya? No, Sher…<em>Fuck,</em> no, that’s not it!”</p><p>I groaned. “Oh, get to the point!”</p><p>“Look, so this is really sudden, but—”</p><p>“What!”</p><p>“I need…! <em>I need…!” </em>You were completely exhausted by now. Out of pity, I braked my car. With staggered steps and breaths, you rocked up to my unrolled window, and huffed, “Okay. So.”</p><p>I laughed. “Yes?”</p><p>“I need you to go to Duscur with me.”</p><p>I waited.</p><p>I waited for the punchline. The revelation of a joke. Yet, nothing came. Nothing changed. You stayed there, arm resting on Titania, and stared into my eyes with hopeless sincerity.</p><p>So, I parked. Exited the car. Stood away from you, but close enough so that you could hear me, and whispered:</p><p>
  <em>“What?”</em>
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